


The Sleep

by YoungJusticeAddict



Series: The Misery Chronicles [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Cursing, M/M, Tucker is an unrelenting tease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungJusticeAddict/pseuds/YoungJusticeAddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all this time, they should know better than to assume those who have been killed are actually dead.<br/>They could burn on a pyre, have their ashes dumped in the crapper, and still pop out of nowhere with a "Surprise, Mother Fuckers!" and a shit-eating grin plastered on their ugly mugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Easy first chapter. Extreme violence comes later. R&R!

_"TAKE COVER!"_

He can't tell whose voice it is, but he follows the order, knees hitting the pavement at breakneck speed and his hands reaching up to cover his head in expectation. Around him, some of the Feds panic, while the Rebels smile to each other. He watches them closely, ready to reprimand them if this warning was of their doing.

His hand trailed down from the top of his helmet to his hip, gripping the hilt of his dagger in anticipation of whatever came next. If anything good had to come out of the Freelancer program, Agent Washington would say it was being taught to keep constant vigilance even in the most innocent of scenarios. The Director sure kept him on his toes.

Fits of hushed laughter erupted from the Rebel soldiers as they watched something behind Wash with an intense interest. Keeping his knelt position, he spun on his toes to see for himself what the fuss was all about.

He was met visor-first with the flat edge of a tire. The scrape of the rubber against his helmet drowned out all of the laughter he had been listening to before. It was quick, but left a rather nasty reminder on the viewfinder. Tread marks and webs of fractures impaired his vision, but after the impact, there wasn't much to see other than the ceiling.

The force of flying rubber pushed him onto his rear, slamming his back-plate on the concrete with a deafening clap. His arms splayed out at his sides and his legs bent below him awkwardly. He groaned, his joints popping audibly as he straightened himself out. Rolling over, his senses were assaulted by wisps of burning rubber and exhaust spilling into his helmet. He squinted to see through the obstructions, the fractures splitting his view of the Warthog that just tackled him.

"Hakuna Matata, motherfuckers!" Tucker shouted from the driver's seat, grinning as he stood on the console and reached for the passenger. Straining, he raised the occupant over his head and announced, "Mmff....The prince has returned to the pride!"

The passenger was Junior, the six-foot alien hybrid and son of Captain Tucker. He was held above his father's head for a short moment before being set back on his feet again. "Honk!"

 _"Long live the king,"_ Wash muttered sarcastically, pushing himself up off the floor. "Tucker, what the hell. You could have _killed_ someone."

Tucker leaned against the metal frame protruding from the center of the vehicle, separating the front and back seats, "Pull the stick out, Wash. My kid's here!" He slapped his hand on Junior's back, "He's staying for a while, isn't that great?"

Getting to his feet, Washington reached to remove his helmet. A metallic hiss echoed in the space between replies, and Tucker stood straight, feeling a little guilty over his comrade's broken visor. He held his helmet under his right arm and brushed his loose blond hair back with the left, giving Tucker a wooden glare, "Yeah. Great." Addressing Junior, he nodded in his direction, "Nice to finally meet you, kid."

Turning around, Wash felt a crunch under his boot. Examining the cause, he discovered tiny streams of confetti ribbons and sprinkles of chunky glitter littering the ground. _'When did those get there?'_ He shook his head, "Get this cleaned up before Kimball finds out," he mumbled. "The last thing we need is someone to trip on your celebratory paper during an emergency drill." Stepping around the debris, Washington made his way to Simmons in the armory, hoping the scarlet soldier had a replacement visor.

* * *

Simple repairs provided clarity for Agent Washington. The strain of the tool as it tightened the bolts of the new visor was easy to concentrate on. The weight in his hand shifting between discarded wrenches distracted him from the blatant ignorance towards the safety of others that his colleague possessed. No, colleague was wrong, and so were all of the other titles Wash could think up for Lavernius Tucker. Colleague was too distant. He had grown too close to all of the sim troopers to consider any of them just colleagues, and Tucker was no exception.

If anything, he had grown much closer to Tucker than any of the others. He needed a different title, a different label, but for now-

"Wash..."

-you could call it whatever.

He barely acknowledged the call for his attention, simply flashing a glance at the gold plate that protected the speaker's face and continuing with his repairs. His silence made it clear that he did not want to talk at the moment, but Tucker being Tucker, just ignored it.

"What the fuck, dude?" Out of the corner of his eye, Wash could see the physical demonstrations of Tucker's frustration; his wild, colorful gesturing showcasing his moment of release. "My kid shows up, and you just fucking bail? Claiming all you care about is the damn confetti? What is wrong with you!" That last one is less of a question, and more of an accusatory remark. There's a lot of things wrong with Wash, he knows, but he wants to pick something off his list that explains what it is this time around.

Instead of bottling up, Wash gave him the smallest sliver of satisfaction that came with that check-mark. He set down the tools and stood, quietly placing his helmet in his seat. Facing Tucker, he kept his expression even, "You are inconsiderate, destructive and self-centered. You are careless, and your driving skills are a joke."

He was a few feet from Wash when the confrontation began, but by the time Wash finished, Tucker was only a foot away. His body angrily expelled a scorching heat from his core, filling the space between them with a tantalizingly dangerous warmth.

Wash never registered when or how his companion had removed his own helmet during his stride. The Freelancer was mesmerized by the way his locks swung from their chamber, free to fall on his shoulders and frame his perfectly sculpted cheekbones. The dreads were tick and dark, like an artist had purposely inked the directions to his heart around Tucker's face with a calligraphy pen.

Resting above those cheekbones were a pair of burning, chestnut stained eyes, staring him down in defiance and challenge. The way the light danced in his irises, courting the anger and waltzing with something more, had Washington holding his breath still in his chest.

The action left him grasping dizzily for the sanity he had once procured in the meaningless silence before Tucker's arrival.

Tucker saw Washington still and allowed his lips to twitch at the corner, giving off an almost invisible smirk. Pushing on, he melted the distance between their chest-plates; listening to them scrape and whine as Wash was forced to follow his movements backwards until the backs of his legs tapped the chair that cradled his helmet.

Tucker drew near, his height leaving his lips just above Wash's brow. A warm breath rolled across the Freelancer's forehead and breezed lightly through his hair. His voice came out low and gravely, hinting quite directly with a slightly humorous tone that he was not completely offended by Washington's accusations, "Why don't you come up here and say that to my _face_ , Wash?"

The way the other spoke his name pulled somewhere deep. His stomach leapt to his ribs and grabbed at his heart, squeezing it with a callous purchase before letting it jump into his throat. His lips were parted, but no sound escaped. All words were caught up in the internal battle with his organs. He cursed himself for letting the teal soldier get the upper hand in their game.

Sliding out of his way, Washington fancied himself with finding the right tool.

Many feet away.

In the back of the room.

Far away from Captain McSteamy.

Tucker watched him leave, his eyes lingering a little too long on a place a little too low for friends to look at. He got it in his head that maybe Wash would like a peek at his goods too.

He turned to a cabinet near the exit, and decided to mess with nothing of importance on the lowest shelf. He bent his body at the waist, much like an unsuspecting teen in short shorts would do, and left his ass high in the air for the other to view.

The ruffling of supplies caught Washington's attention again and he turned to face Tucker as he spoke, "And don't worry, Wash. I'll be sure to pick up every last piece of confetti, as ordered." Wash sputtered a curse and dropped the box of tools he was holding. The resulting sound of metal on concrete served as a victory call for Tucker, and he returned to a normal standing position, leaving immediately.

Wash fumbled in the open air, grabbing for boxes that weren't there. He slowly came to the realization that they were in fact sprawled across the floor, and not within the distance of his grasp. Kneeling to collect the fallen tools, he was startled by the shriek that came from the scarlet soldier on the other side of the barricade where the ammo and weapons were checked in.

Having been behind the barricade during the entire exchange, Simmons cried, _"What the fuck was that?!"_


End file.
